Lights out

There’s a cricket in our room. As soon as the lights go out, he starts his song. One cricket in a room sounds just a little desperate, crick cricking with everything he’s got to an audience of… people sleeping? Is he lost? Or is it every cricket’s dream to squeeze through and get “in”? Afterall, it’s a pretty sweet venue for a solo act — marble floors, painted concrete walls… great acoustics. I don’t know what he’s doing. Looking for love? Trying to find his friends? Announcing that he needs a late night snack? Maybe he’s chanting, his cricketing a sonic driver for a shamanic bug journey. Maybe he just loves to sing, waiting patiently for the dark so he can rub those hairy hind legs together. I’m also not sure he’s a he, but I think the lady crickets are the ones quietly being sung to, sitting in the corner pretending to not pay attention as the boy crickets desperately try to win their favor. In the dark.

What sounds a little sad is that, after half an hour or so, the cricketing becomes irregular until, a few minutes later, it stops altogether. What’s going on? Is he tired? He waits all day long until it’s dark so he can sing his legs off, and then he poops out after half an hour. Cricket? Did you sing yourself to sleep?

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